


He Pulled the Trigger

by igiveup101



Category: Justified
Genre: PTSD, basically the chronicling of Tim's mental breakdown
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:39:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igiveup101/pseuds/igiveup101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim is at least 95% sure he's falling apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro

Tim was at least 95% sure he was falling apart.

Things had been a little shaky since he'd gotten back Afghanistan. Nothing he couldn't handle- nightmares, some anxiety, and every now and then nothing seemed real, or he was fairly certain he could hear screaming everywhere he went. But that was fine- he could deal with it, no one caught on (well, not really), and he could still do his job.

Things got a little shakier after the Colton ordeal.  Still manageable; he sacrificed sleep and spent those hours keeping guard instead, trained himself to tell the difference between reality and things he made up (he hesitated to say hallucinations because that implied there was something actually wrong),  and sucked it up. If no one could tell and it didn't affect his work, then no harm done. 

The problem was that  now, for reasons Tim didn't quite understand, things seemed to be getting somewhat worse. And by 'somewhat,' he meant 'a whole lot.' 


	2. It Begins

He'd just come back from another damn funeral. If you asked him, he'd been to way too fucking many.

Tim had served with the deceased- with Rob- before he'd left the military. He'd known the man for years. Sometimes, when Rob was on  leave, they still got together. Tim had seen him two months ago. He threw his head back now, emptying the last of the beer into his throat. If he could drink enough, he figured the black hole in his stomach would go away and he'd be able to breathe. Until then,  he'd have to content himself watching TV.

He flicked through the channels until he found something suitably mindless. He sat there for hours, staring at the screen, trying to get drunk enough to either pass out or  not give a shit-  and failing. This routine was interrupted by a commercial for some movie , as s ome  set meant to pass for a warzone flashed through the screen. It was followed by images that Tim couldn't  quite manage to make out, but he could tell that they involved rifles, and people in military uniforms, and bloody bodies. One image was clear- a corpse with a single bullet hole  between its eyes. It seemed to stay on for an unnaturally long period of time, thoug h  that may just have been Tim, and all he could think was that that wasn't how a head looked when it  got  shot. No, there was a lot more blood, and pieces of skull, and brain matter.

  


Then Tim was vomiting on the carpet, and the black hole in his stomach seemed to spread and swallow him up, leaving him blind and sick and falling.

The next thing he knew, he was curled up in a corner, knees up to his chest and his gun clenched tightly in his fist. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, and he couldn't move.  Goddammit. Goddammit,  Gutterson , get the fuck up.

But he couldn't. So he stayed there for an hour , hyperventilating and trying to push himself further against the wall, and  mentally screaming at himself  to  get up and stop being such a fucking child.


	3. Dreams

 "Gutterson, can you confirm visual?"

 

"Yes, sir."

"And you have a shot." 

"Yes, sir." 

Silence. Then, "Take it."

"Art- sir-"

"I said take the shot."

"He's just a kid."

"Take the shot."

He pulled the trigger.

Time slowed down, and he watched the bullet cut through the air, and then through a skull. It wasn't right. This was just some poor kid with the misfortune to get caught up in some adults' war, to be born in the wrong place at the  wrong  time. 

He knew how the military worked, he thought, watching the body fall slowly towards the ground. He knew you weren't supposed to question orders. But Raylan messed up all the time, and everyone thought he was a perfectly fine soldier. He'd shot a lot of people. Tim had shot a lot of people, too .

The body hit the ground.

Watching through the scope of the rifle, Tim saw the boy- the corpse- the boy turn his head towards him. He- it- he smiled, his face melting away, followed by the rest of the world, and Tim was falling. He reached out, hoping to grab something, anything, to stop himself. An arm broke through the darkness, reaching for him, then another, and another, and another, and Tim realized that they weren't giving help, they were begging for it. 

Through the almost deafening cacophony of cries and screams, one voice rose louder, clearer, drowning the others in a sense of what was almost calm. "Tim."

And then it was just him and Rachel in the darkness. Tim tried to say something, to thank her, to apologize, anything, but his throat was in shreds. She opened her mouth, lips curled upwards in a smile

and he heard the shot before it tore through her head, spreading her brain and skull and smile throughout the void. As Rachel- the boy- the corpse- Rachel fell, he saw the man behind the smoking gun, looking dispassionately at his work. It was him- no, his father- no, him- no-

Tim woke up.

**Author's Note:**

> Like I've said before, I know approximately nothing about PTSD. I've done some research, but I don't know if most of the symptoms or whatever that I portray are even slightly accurate, or if his reactions are. I apologize to anyone I offend, but I thank you for taking the time to read this anyway. Also, yeah, the first chapter is really short, but the others are longer.


End file.
